Page 40 of A Lot Like Lavender

EMORY

I would have come to the Honey Hill HEAs and Book Baes’ Book Club way sooner if I’d been informed that no one at the book club actually discusses the book or romance or anything literature related. All of the H3B2 gals, which is what they call themselves—but sounds like a dangerous influenza strain to me—have been nestled in Brooke’s cozy little home for a few hours now, snacking on Irish beef stew, buttered soda bread, and Irish Creme coffee cocktails. I’m two cocktails deep, yet still, not a single blip of romance has been mentioned.

They should call themselves Free Carbs and Conversation.

Honestly, book club is kind of the best.

Especially if you count the fact that I’m actively avoiding a man and a difficult conversation. And if you ignore the fact that the mother of that particular man is also in attendance tonight. Which I am.

So burying myself in a vat of butter and bread whilelearning Irish step dance has been a decent distraction. The instructor of our little tutorial tonight is none other than Haven, the owner of Molly’s favorite juice bar in town, Nature’s Nectar, and one half of the couple Charlie refers to asthe hippies. Haven surprised us all tonight by showing up in a traditional, Celtic dress, knee-length stockings, and a no-nonsense attitude.

“You have to accept the heartbeat of the rhythm with your spirit first, then your body will follow,” Haven instructs, hopping from toe to toe.

“My body’s rejecting it, girlie.” Charlie has been skeptical of Haven and her husband, Ocean, since they arrived in town, but I think making direct eye contact as Haven does a jig with an Irish rock band playing over the speakers has been the nail in the coffin for any future friendship. And honestly, I kind of get it.

I’ve been paired with Dr. Rafferty for the majority of our dance lesson, which feels like a bit of a cruel joke. We’ve talked about form and calf muscle strains and the Riverdance guy that had the grace of an Irish angel but have blessedly avoided the fact that I know, that she knows, that I’ve seen the upper half of her son’s naked body and, to her knowledge, at least enjoyed some aspect of it.

The author of the book of the month, a local girl in bright yellow glasses—who’s sweating through a T-shirt I’m obsessed with that reads, “Free and Feral” and has a racoon in full military gear printed on it—looks like she was roped into visiting H3B2 tonight without the full scope of the group’s activities. She’s been a good sport, though, dancing toe to toe with my sister, who is—as any woman would be, given a momentary reprieve from their toddler—having the night of her life.

Charlie fans her face with a paperback copy of theromantic suspense book no one has discussed tonight and announces she needs another cocktail.

Haven pauses the music and her twinkle toes, not a single bit of perspiration masking her natural glow. “Oh, Charlotte”—she pauses Charlie in her tracks, and I have to hold back my laughter—“I do hope you’ll try the wellness shots I brought for the festivities. I know how much you value health, especially with your essential oils. Ocean and I use your ylang ylang and sandalwood in our bedroom. That blend creates excellent pheromones and a welcoming atmosphere for our essences to converge.”

Charlie actually gags, then growls—apparently not an action only reserved for fictional, male main characters.

Brooke is delighted with this update, immediately picking up her phone and likely texting her husband, who’s a baseball player currently on the road but entirely obsessed with the quirkiness that is Ocean and Haven and their ten or so model children.

“Those shots look like you’ve been soaking the essences of your socks in hot dog water.” Charlie grimaces at the drinks and raises a cocktail glass to her reddened face instead.

Feral authoris captivated by this exchange, almost as if she’ll be adding it to a book after she eventually escapes this night.

Deciding to give Haven, who never seems very put out by Charlie’s crankiness, a little encouragement, I lift one of her glasses from the tray and take a sip.

“Of course, it isn’t weiner water. We don’t eat mixed meat in our home, Charlotte,” Haven informs.

Dinah does a spit take of the drink she’s sipping, and it better be non-alcoholic, because she’s my ride outta here.

“They’re actually a sophisticated blend of lemongrass, cayenne pepper, and ground placenta.”

I spit the contents back into the glass and wipe my tongue down with my fingernails.THIS—drinking placenta from an unknown source—is Dante’s fourth circle. I’m never coming back to book club.

Dinah pats me on the back, giggling behind her hand. I quickly consider drinking a shot glass filled with bleach.

“I think that’s my cue to leave. You ready?” Jack volunteered to watch both the girls, so we rode together, and I think I’ve spent just enough time to make my excuse for Jordan legit. “I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

“Oh, already?” She looks so disappointed, I almost fold. “But we haven’t even gotten to discussion yet, and I drank two cocktails. I don’t think I should drive.”

I just knew she was too silly to be sober.

“We never get to discussion,” Chloe says. “We barely make it past snacks.”

“Well, we did discuss that motorcycle romance, didn’t we?” Dr. Rafferty says, mischief in her smile. “I had Bill rent one for the weekend after that. I let him take me for a drive as… What do they call it?”

“His bookbag,” Mrs. Cotten answers proudly.

“Backpack, Mrs. Cotten,” Joey says, tucking her feet underneath her as she takes a seat on the couch.

Mrs. Cotten nods her head. “That’s what I said. Backpack. My Michael had a motorcycle once. But he sold it on account of my vertigo, so we used the money to buy a hot tub instead. My, oh my, he sure was handsome on it, though.”